


Gone Fishin'

by FernDavant



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Comics)
Genre: Canon - Comics, Multi, completely platonic fish love, sort of vague Twelve/Clara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/pseuds/FernDavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has struck up a friendship with a taxidermy fish. Clara is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Fishin'

**Author's Note:**

> Based around the Doctor's fishy friend Sonny who is figuring in prominently in the Twelfth Doctor Comics (Year 2). The comics are great. I would highly recommend them.

They’d taken care of the Sea Devils. It was done and dusted. Day saved.

But he still had that bloody fish. Perhaps if he’d mounted it on the wall in the TARDIS somewhere, a place where a stuffed fish belonged, then it still would have been a bit creepy, but she would have tolerated that.

But, no. He just sort of kept it around.

It smelled, too, like whatever that stuff was that taxidermists used, but also like old beer, and this vaguely salty, fishy smell. That didn’t stop the Doctor from periodically giving it a cuddle. And no, she wasn’t jealous of a bloody stuffed fish, wouldn’t let herself be jealous of a stuffed fish, no matter how difficult it was to cajole the Doctor into physical contact. It was easier now, admittedly, but not half as easy as it would have been if she was a _fucking fish_.

First few outings after the Sea Devil incident, he tried to bring the fish along. Clara firmly and vehemently put a stop to that, but it was surprisingly difficult. He got a hurt look whenever Clara took a shot at the fish.

“I just want you and Sonny to be friends,” the Doctor had said, something plaintive in his tone.

Clara was not going to dignify a stuffed fish with a name, but she did sort of prod the fish in a disinterested manner when the Doctor nudged her with the swordfish’s sword. This seemed to appease the Doctor, and Clara was happy when the conversation about the swordfish appeared to be tabled for the time being.

The stuffed fish still loomed around the console room, its presence occasionally unsettling Clara, but at least the Doctor didn’t seem to be trying to make her buddy up with it any longer. Clara could just about tolerate the whole thing, until one day she came into the TARDIS, only to find the Doctor sitting in his wing-backed chair, swordfish in lap, reading quietly to it and petting its fishy little scales.

Clara made an incredulous noise. The Doctor made an embarrassed noise. The swordfish, thankfully, did not make a noise of any kind.

“What are you doing?” Clara asked.

“I—“ the Doctor had gone rather red. “I was—elocution.”

“Elocution?”

“Elocution exercises. Just to make sure I’m still impressive when I have to give threatening speeches to alien baddies.”

“With a swordfish in your lap?”

“Is there a swordfish in my lap?” the Doctor questioned, playing innocent in the most unconvincing way humanly (or Time Lordly) possible. He made a move to stand-up in a carefree manner, to let the swordfish, and the book, drop from his lap. He let the book drop, certainly, but at the last second, he sort of juggled the swordfish with his feet, to soften its landing.

“What the fuck?” Clara said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Do you—do you want to see a star whale?”

“No, no I don’t want to see a star whale. I don’t think a star whale will fit through the door to the TARDIS, and I don’t trust you with aquatic life right now,” Clara snapped. “Take me to somewhere that has no water. A desert.”

“Desert. I can do that. Yes,” the Doctor said, rushing off to the console, flicking some levers.

The next time Clara was alone with the swordfish, she punted it across the console room. It didn’t do anything, but it made her feel better.

There was a bit of a détente for a while after the reading incident. Then what Clara had mentally named ‘the what-the-hell-do-you-even-call-this incident’ incident happened. She walked into the console room to find no Doctor at all. This wasn’t particularly weird. Sometimes he didn’t realize where he’d landed, or forgot that he’d landed at all. She figured she’d find him strumming on his guitar, or tinkering with something in some sort of lab somewhere further into the TARDIS. But no. She heard his voice coming from the first open door in the TARDIS’ corridor she spotted and slowed down. He wasn’t mumbling to himself like he did sometimes when he was alone. No, he was talking, babbling like he did when she was around. Clara crept to the edge of the door, listening to his conversation.

“I mean, it’s a difficult physics problem. I know I knew how to solve it once, but you know, my mind is a spaghetti strainer sometimes. Delete, delete, delete. Gotta make room for the universe. I’m sure we’ll figure it out, though; two minds are better than one, hey? You’re such a terrific listener, Sonny. You don’t ever complain when I talk science or maths. You’ve never said anything about my fashion choices, either, which I frankly appreciate. I mean, what does she know anyway? She wears different clothes all the time. That’s just impractical…”

At this point, the Doctor trailed off. He _might_ have noticed the tiny bit of Clara’s eyes and head, visible from where she had peeked around the corner of the door frame to look at the swordfish, propped up on a stool, facing a chalkboard upon which the Doctor had written equations.

Clara jerked away. They hadn’t locked eyes. They hadn’t locked eyes, so maybe he hadn’t really seen her. Maybe he just thought he saw her. Maybe they could both pretend this hadn't happened. Clara ran off down the corridor as quickly and quietly as she could manage, picked up her bag, carefully opened and shut the TARDIS door, then loudly opened and closed it, giving as loud a holler as she could muster, “Doctor?”

The Doctor appeared a few moments later, clutching the swordfish like it was a life preserver and he was a particularly poor swimmer. His eyes were sort of shifty. He seemed to be trying to play it cool, but in a manner that indicated he didn’t understand the meaning of ‘play,’ ‘cool,’ or even ‘it.’

“Hello, Clara,” the Doctor said.

“Hello, Doctor,” Clara replied, gamely playing it cool enough for the both of them.

The Doctor gave a half-smile that looked as though it physically pained him to offer. “Do you want to see a planet entirely made out of sunflowers?”

“I would absolutely love to see a planet made out of sunflowers,” Clara agreed, nodding enthusiastically, before adding, tone as neutral as she could make it, “Please, don’t bring the swordfish.”

“No, no, no. Wasn’t dreaming of it.”

“Of course not,” Clara replied solemnly.

Clara tried to forget that any of that had happened, but another disturbing development escalated her concern about the Doctor and Sonny’s relationship. (Oh, god, she was calling the fish by its ‘name.’)

The fish was…deteriorating. Apparently its scales were partially painted on, and the paint had flaked and chipped in places. The sword bit had gone quite bent and floppy, and the body of the fish had gained a few holes, and salt or sand seeped out of parts of it. This made it stink worse, and Clara detected the smell of formaldehyde from it, which, coupled with memories of biology class dissections, made her feel faintly nauseated. She felt even more nauseated when she caught that smell on the Doctor’s coat. What the hell was he doing with that fish?

Clara got at least a partial answer in her flat one day. It wasn’t even a Wednesday, which, frankly, made her wonder if he was just winding her up. She found him, sprawled across her couch in the living room, fast asleep—she’d never seen him sleep before, and the awkward angle he was on the couch gave her the vague impression that he was one of those wind-up robots who ran out of wind-up power and just sort of toppled over—and the Doctor was, there was no other word for it, spooning the swordfish. He had one leg draped over the fish, which he was cradling close to his chest. And he was sucking on the sword bit like it was a dummy.

This was the last straw.

Clara kicked him. Hard. In the thigh. This was unfortunate, since she’d been aiming for his junk, but nobody was perfect.

The Doctor flailed and fell off the couch face-first, leaving a puddle of drool on her carpet. Clara kicked him again, but this time to roll him off the swordfish, which she yanked out of his arms, and took towards the TARDIS, which was sat in the corner of her living room. Clara snapped her fingers, and the TARDIS doors swung open. Clara swiftly marched straight through the console room, and off into the corridor. She knew exactly what room she was looking for; she just hoped the TARDIS would co-operate and that the room still existed.

“Wait, no!” the Doctor said, and she could hear him scrambling along the corridor behind her.

A door swung open of its own accord in the corridor, just ahead of her, and Clara got the distinct impression that the TARDIS hated this fish as much as she did.

 _I’m not jealous, if you’re not jealous,_ Clara thought as she walked into the room. Incinerator. Yes. Just what she was looking for.

“What are you doing?” the Doctor asked, panicked. He’d caught up to her. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on whose side of the fish debate you were on) he’d tried to stop in front of the door, had too much momentum going, and had merely slid past it, like an un-coordinated Tom Cruise in _Risky Business_.

The Doctor’s complete inability to control his limbs gave Clara enough time to pull open the door to the incinerator, chuck the bloody fish in, and slam the door shut.

“No!” the Doctor shouted with anguish. He’d made it back to the doorway, navigated through the door, and managed to shove Clara to the side, pressing his face up against the window to the incinerator. “Sonny!”

Clara suddenly felt, well, not sorry—she would do it again, in a heartbeat—but there was a sort of tenderness welling up in her heart at the Doctor’s grief.

“Erm,” Clara began, at a bit of a loss. She rubbed the Doctor’s back in a way that she hoped was comforting, even though she had just chucked his fish into an incinerator. “Do you want to say a few words?”

“He was such an old soul,” the Doctor said, and my god, was he crying? “So intelligent and caring.”

“He was a stuffed fish,” Clara mumbled, half to herself.

“An excellent listener. Fabulous taste in literature.”

“Yeah, no, still a stuffed fish.”

The Doctor turned towards her, and Clara was afraid, for one brief, wild moment, that he might strike out in anger at her act of fishicide. However, the Doctor instead scooped her up into a hug. And judging by the snuffling noises, he was definitely crying.

“I’m—sorry for your loss?” Clara offered, even though she had been directly responsible for his loss. Well, she felt like the TARDIS was at least a collaborator, so perhaps she wasn’t wholly responsible.

“It’s okay,” the Doctor sniffed thickly. “You were right. It was probably time for me to say goodbye to him anyway. Our friendship had come to a natural conclusion. Plus, he was getting a bit manky.”

“Yeah,” Clara agreed. “It was likely time.”

“Can I get another fish?” the Doctor asked, pulling back from the hug and looking at Clara expectantly.

“No!” Clara almost shouted. “I mean, what about, maybe you shouldn’t get something from a taxidermist or a wall-mount next time. And maybe hold off for a bit, yeah?”

The Doctor nodded solemnly, “Probably too soon to put myself out on the market again. Although, there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

If she hadn’t known the Doctor quite well, Clara would’ve thought he was taking the piss. More likely though, he couldn’t help himself with the puns and dad jokes, even in this moment of sadness.

A few weeks later, Clara bought him a stuffed fish, a toy stuffed fish, made out of plush and stuffed with fluff.

The Doctor clutched the new fish to his chest with child-like glee, christened it Sonny II (Whatever. Clara had owned at least three different cats named Whiskers while growing up), and set it down gently in his wingback chair.

Fucking weirdo.


End file.
